


Fluid Chemistry

by manspirations



Series: Long Live Stackson! [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison-Jackson Hallway Scene, Alternate Canon, Chemistry puns, M/M, Pre-Slash, Season 1 Scene Rewrite, Stackson Edition, Wit and Banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18890251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manspirations/pseuds/manspirations
Summary: Stiles has enough problems in his life, what with Argents and Alphas trying to kill him and Scott on the reg, Derek sulking about everywhere they turn, and Harris expecting him to complete no less than 3 hours of Chemistry homework a night on top of it.The last thing he needs (or wants) is Jackson interrupting the few gloriously idle moments of his day with wit and false charm.(A Season 1 scene reimagine where Jackson uses Stiles to learn Scott's secret rather than Allison.)Written for Stackson Week 2019 - Day 1: Scene Rewrite





	Fluid Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> This story reimagines the Allison/Jackson hallway scene in Heart Monitor, 1x06, 20:21-23:27 if anyone needs a refresher. (We're taken it all the way to the beginning this week lmao).
> 
>   
> *Gif found on Giphy and I couldn't trace to original creator. Therefore, all credits go to original creator (wherever you may be)! Thanks <3

 

It was safe to assume Stiles abhorred Harris and everything the man represented. Chemistry included. How dare he give them an entire packet, a short essay, and an "UnPop" Pop Quiz to be taken next period? Like, what robozoid, zombie-brained teenager could complete all that plus maintain their recommended 8 hours of sleep? Not, Stiles. He hadn’t even known one could write 3 pages about the topic of Chemistry alone. Wasn't it all just covalent bonds and explosions?

Guzzling his near empty Cherry Coke, he flipped to another page of equal signs, subscript numbers, and periodic elements. With each frantic turn, all of Harris’ chemical formulas were beginning to morph into the only one his brain memorized in a year of Chem, C6H12O6. _God, if only Lucifer knew the sinful acts he’d commit for some of that right now._ Maybe, if he actually survived these ten pages, he’d treat himself to a cafeteria brownie--all burnt edges yet gooey center like he craved it.  

The fourth period bell ended his free period with the promise of unleashing thousands of his dear classmates.

45 minutes of lunch. 42 questions to go. 

A cone of silence encapsulated him as his classmates materialized like preoccupied bees. Bodies buzzed from every classroom, all of them heading towards the call of Chicken Tender Tuesday. As he attempted answers, he wondered how carefree life must be for them. To only worry about schoolwork, friends and overbearing parents. To not startle awake at 3 in the morning because your best friend needed you to spearhead a high-speed supernatural diversion. To run for pure enjoyment rather than your livelihood. To google advice like ‘too much masturbation dick humps’ rather than ‘lycanthrope silver protection.’

_Oh how Privileged, the little worker bees were and none of them even realized it._

Back propped against the lockers, he outstretched his legs to give them a fraction of hardship he endured daily. Thankfully, their cacophony of 'who broke up with whom' and 'who passed out at whom’s party' subsided with the constant slam and sway of double doors. If only he’d managed more than 5 measly questions in that time, he’d call it a true victory. He finally turned another page when a heavy clatter jolted his right side.

"What are you writing?"

“Gahh,” Stiles jolted, hands taking flight on their own accord. The stench of rich boy and leather identified his interloper within seconds. “Go away. This area is mature adults only.”

“You should probably leave then huh?” Jackson scoffed back. From his peripheral, Stiles swore he caught the beginnings of a holier-than-thou smirk before the guy's ass settled officially against lacquered tile. One could speculate he practiced teenaged douchebaggery to the same vengeance of girls who praised kegels. 

Stiles didn’t have enough energy for more than a half sneer back.

33 minutes. 30 questions remaining.

Nevermind the minutes he'd lose properly conveying the importance of personal boundaries---exhibit A: Jackson's $60 designer jean-clad knee rubbing against Stiles’ $16 own. Or the need to 'spray and delay' like the fashion experts advised, so the heat radiating off Jackson's musky sandalwood cologne wasn't threatening Stiles' olfactory ability. 

Unbothered, Jackson shifted closer to him despite the grittiness in his gleam suggesting he’d rather do anything else.

“Can you not?” Stiles bucked his arms out over and over, ramming into Jackson's side until he regifted him at least 3 inches of space.

“All that time you begged for my girlfriend and best friend’s attention, would have thought you’d be gagging for it.”

His pencil physically halted over number 73, lifting as he turned.“That’s them. You’re--” He took seconds that time wouldn’t grant him to rake his gaze down Jackson’s hunched body inch by judgmental inch. “--You,” he injected the words with every insult he’d ever mentally saved for him. After a moment’s hesitation deciding to add, “Though that you looks shittier than usual.” And he didn't have to lie about that one. The thinner Stiles squinted, the more obvious it became; there was a stickiness oozing from him. 

Stiles' mechanical pencil acted on his behalf, poking the puffiness of Jackson's reddening bags, sticky fluid on his eraser tracking the distance between each prod. It wasn’t until the third time that Jackson snatched the wood midair and chucked it down the hall. Honestly, he was surprised to get three in, must be some shitty personality-altering illness.

They both watched, Jackson smug, Stiles indifferent as plastic splintered against tile and rolled into a half dozen pieces.

“Remember that thing about mature adults?” Stiles memorialized his fallen soldier then tugged its twin from behind an ear, “This is where you leave.”

“I would," Jackson gritted, hands clasping together and settling calmly in his lap. ”But that’d be the mature thing to do and then I’d have to come right back.”

Stiles broke down in a chortle despite himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that in response to Jackson rather than at him. Second? Third Grade? Since it was best to avoid memory lane in front of said distorted memory, he tipped his expression back to a cautious neutral. "Does this little ceasefire have a purpose? Or can I save my ass and get back to this shit? 26 minutes. 25 problems to go." 

For the first time, Jackson seemed to notice Stiles wasn't out here missing juicy chicken tenders for his personal enjoyment. (Or either of theirs for that matter.) A sane person with basic manners might apologize and excuse themselves. Even an asshole, who'd taken Harris before, might note the thick ass packet, burst into laughter, and throw the worksheets to the ground before strutting away.

But, a Jackson with an ulterior motive (as Stiles had years to learn) shifted closer on a nosy perusal, his chin hovering over Stiles’ shoulder. This close, he didn’t need a wolfy nose to smell the decay Jackson tried so hard to cover up, a stark contrast compared to the minty-fresh of his breath, now tickling up and down his arm.

If someone walked by at that moment, he wouldn’t be able to explain why either of them didn’t immediately back away. Or why Jackson decided to confuse their checkerboard dynamic in one move.

“Is this a growly bump in the night thing?” he blurted, catching the edges of what looked to be puncture marks smothering his neck. He took Jackson’s clenching jaw to mean absolutely.

Rather than respond to that, Jackson nodded at his paper, “Number 75 is wrong.”

“The man said do the packet. He didn’t say do it right.”

“That’s generally how the concept of homework works,” Jackson’s snort-smile tripped his pencil.

He shifted over several more inches, hoping the move shielded his appreciation. God, he hated witty Jackson above all versions of him; it always bred too much sarcasm between the two of them. For the sake of their fragile dynamic, he needed the fueled insults and occasional brawls to return.

“You’re evading my questions,” Stiles reminded him. 

“And you’re evading yours,” Jackson tapped cheekily at his paper. “25 problems.” He faked a look at his watch, too fast for the screen to do more than stutter on. “Ouch, less than 26 minutes to go.”

Too many thoughts wracked their way into Stiles’ brain at once as his fingers kicked back into action. His dwindling time. The potentiality of Jackson’s involvement in their already supernatural spiral.

The alpha turning him.

Oh God, or the Alpha _turning into_ him.

The Argents recruiting him.

Jackson giving up Scott’s identity to the Argents. 

“Tell you what,” A smooth cadence rolled itself past Stiles’ mental blockade, Jackson’s unmarred expression creeping him out more than the casual click of his teeth. His scleras might have grown more sunken red since he’d plop down next to Stiles, but that hadn’t stopped Stiles from leaning in. “You answer mine,” he whispered into the empty air surrounding them, “I answer yours.”

“Do you even know--”

“I took Chem Honors last year. 24 problems, Stiles.”

He knew the time without him saying it--17 minutes to go. What choice did he truly have? He glanced to his left then right, hallway still blessedly empty. Jackson chose the moment he peered back to extend one bored eyebrow as he pointed to his Fossil watch. It occurred to him then that this’d been Jackson’s plan all along, back him into a time-bound corner with only two decisions left, one of them marginally more favorable than the other.

“Me now,” he thrusted his packet into Jackson’s lap. “You later.”

“How do I know you won’t take my _expertise,_ ” Jackson punctuated with the confidence of Lydia Martin, “and renege?”

“Only one of us is the douchebag and it ain’t me.”

Jackson tsked, “Depending on who you ask.”

"Touche," he knocked against the dwindling time on Jackson's wrist rather than refuting a statement they both knew held truth. Jackson's reaction should have pissed him off, the little wink he gave Stiles as he yanked his pencil from Stiles' loose grip. Then, Jackson started writing and with haste, his fingers working over Stiles' homework like it was his own. The ease to how he scrawled elements and numbers in a handwriting similar to Stiles' thin, slanted script made him look like Lydia Martin too. And that, Stiles refused to process. 

He'd finally moved safely away from the Danny disaster and was working on the Lydia one. The last thing he needed--and he meant absolutely last on earth in a ground-scorching apocalypse--was a match struck for the worse tether between them. 

Strangely, Jackson saved their stilted silence with an explanation of his steps from one problem to the next. Rather than rush like Stiles expected, he offered comprehensive reasoning on a level that could rival Kumon. The whole display, tone calm and word docile, managed to capture his attention. Their heads were bowed into each other by the time Jackson filled in his final oxygen on the reactant side, problem 100. 

"You're good at this," he'd meant to say mentally.

Jackson’s head, canting towards his at an angle that placed his mouth closer to Stiles’ face than the rest of him, tried to hide the blush commanding his cheeks. He could see Lydia's appeal, literally. (Meaning his brain wouldn't let him see anything else.)

“They teach eighth graders this stuff and--"

"You're good at everything. The whole town _knows_ ," he groaned, "I meant teaching, but now I take it back."

Considering how allergic the kid was to positive language and genuine compliments, he should have see the instant repulsion when it happened. His body might have cried, but his breathing welcomed the air rushing to reclaim the atmosphere between them. 

"You learn a thing or two when your girlfriend practices her lectures in bed.” It came out snidely, but Stiles found humor in it anyway, picturing Lydia's textbooks and cheatsheets soaking across their sweaty bodies.

He surprised them both with a cackle, “Give Lydia my compliments to the chef.” For a long moment, their duel chuckles settled into a mutual grin until the bell shrilled high above their heads.  “Times’ up. Come to mine after practice?”

Jackson popped up the moment footsteps screeched further down the hallway, his brows corrugating, “For…?”

“My turn. This-” he toggled a finger between them, “-has a time limit, so come prepared.” He ruffled his things into a haphazard pile. It’d be just his luck to finish his homework, only to get detention anyway for missing the second bell. “Oh and we’re working on whatever eighth circle of hell packet he gives us today.”

“Whatever, we can do it on the table.”

“WHAT,” he blanched, brain effectively short circuiting. Jackson threw his back over one shoulder, seemingly unaffected by his choice of words, “Did you just--”

A backhanded snort fell from him as Jackson casually backed away, “The periodic table. Chemistry. It was a joke, Stiles.”

 “Oh yeah, right. Let’s do that.” He took off in the other direction, Jackson’s aggravating snicker trailing after him. _Oh, yeah let’s do that?!_ Who was he now, Scott? Even under the flushing embarrassment of how fast his dick chubbed up at the bare mention of them doing anything of the short, he could have conjured something more witty than that. At least he still had four hours to brainstorm his own retribution. And he might not be the expert at Chemistry, but he was the master of innuendos.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hit me up at [@manspirations on tumblr](https://www.manspirations.tumblr.com) for more Stackson Week 2019 shenanigans. Kudos and Comments are loved!


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